“His kids are safer now than they were with him!”
“You killed him for money!” she shouts back. I frown as I run after her, watching her dart down into a valley and trying desperately not to trip and fall. The fact that she has kept her footing this long surprises me in and of itself.
I don’t have a response for her words, though. I do, but it’s much more than we could ever shout back and forth like this. I don’t take blood money just to buy new parts for my motorcycle or furnish my bank account. It has never been about that, and it never will be. I have my reasons, and I know that they’re good ones.
I wish I could explain that to Charity. It would make things so much simpler. But it isn’t the kind of thing you can sit someone down and have a discussion about. I haven’t even told my own mother.
Charity reaches the bottom of the valley and races southward as fast as her legs can carry her, moving in that skirt. But she’s flagging already. A sudden burst of energy doesn’t last long, even in a panic. She knows there’s nowhere to go, too. She might not be thinking it, but the panic is setting in. She went to a darker part of the woods, and she lost the path. She’s probably frustrated at herself for letting her get this far out. Especially now that I have her phone, and the once source of light she had been relying on.
I decide it’s time to bring her back. I’ve let her tire herself out, but I’m not going to let her do something stupid like run off a cliff. I think she’s smarter than that, but in the dark, when fear grips you so tightly you have nothing to do but run, anything is possible. You lose control of your better judgment, and unrefined instinct takes over.
I’ve been there.
I know what she’s feeling.
The distance between us is no more than about thirty yards, and once I decide to close the distance between us, it doesn’t take long for me to catch up to her. She gets a second wind as she realizes that I’m gaining on her. She screams and tries to run faster, but her flats aren’t doing her any favors.
She hangs a right around a hiker’s trail we’ve stumbled on, and the next thing she knows, she’s face to face with a large boulder, and I cut off her exit. Before she can dart away, I swoop in and corner her against the stone, putting an arm against it to keep her pinned in. She presses her back to the rock, looking up at me with gleaming eyes and a fearful face. It wrenches my heart painfully, but she has to understand, if we’re going to be spending any time together.
The smart thing to do would be to kill her.
She is a witness, and she does not trust me. She hates what I am. She fears me. She is a liability in every possible way, and I can’t blame her for that. If I were in her life, I might well do the same. But I have to calm her down.
She doesn’t deserve this trauma, and I will not harm her.
“Charity, I’m not going to hurt you,” I growl, despite everything about the way the scene looks telling her the opposite. “You’re going to get yourself killed if you keep running like this.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she snaps. “Just another hiker lost in the woods, easy to explain away.”
“You’re definitely making that option easy on me,” I admit, a chuckle brewing in my throat, “but if I wanted you dead, you’d be dead already. You don’t strike me as a bad person, Charity, so I know you can listen to reason. The man I killed deserved it. The rich like him, the types you clean rooms for every single day for no more thanks than a low wage? They never face consequences. He never would have faced consequences for anything he did to his wife or his kids. You saw that. You saw how many times he got away with his sick crimes. This was the only way he could face justice.”
“For money,” she retorts, tears now streaming down her eyes in small, thin trails. I clench my jaw.
I hate that she’s right. I hate that she’s tugging at the strings of doubt I thought I had long under control.
“Would you rather they be left alone, free? Unchecked?”
“What makes you think you can decide who deserves to die?”
“I’m the only one who will!”
The glare between us lasts so long that I become aware of the sounds of owls and bugs in the distance, the soft din of the night relatively undisturbed by our antics. There is so much more depth to this girl’s eyes than I gave her credit for.
“You are brave, you know that?” I growl, letting my arm down and giving her a little space to breathe. “Not many people would try to argue down a man they know just took a life.”
“So you admit it,” she says, sniffing as tears continue to run down her face. I stare back at her, and finally, I nod slowly, giving her a definitive answer.
I’ve never admitted to anyone what I was, outside of clients. No one in my life knew the real me. Certainly no woman. My heart thuds heavily in my chest, the pain of opening up to her tasting almost metallic on my tongue.
She hugs herself, clenching her eyes and letting her knees buckle as she sinks down a few inches, leaning against the boulder for support. This can’t be easy for her. To go from a mundane life to this in the span of just a few hours...it’s beyond reality. Today was supposed to be a normal, boring day for her.
I had the benefit of being prepared to walk this path. In that way, she is stronger than me, even. Every step of the way, she’s been smart. Waiting for her exit. Waiting for the right chance to escape me.
So why does fate keep throwing us back together?
I step forward and wrap my arms around her, letting her sob into my chest. She tries to pull away at first, but she must have decided that even a killer’s embrace is better than none, so she resigns herself to me. I stroke her and try to calm her down with soothing words, and after a few moments, her sobbing slows, and she is still. I let her stand on her own, and we look at each other in a new light, knowing exactly where the other stands.
“I can’t leave you,” I say, and I can tell she understands the finality in those words. “So I need you to come with me.”
“I won’t help you kill,” she says.
“You won’t have a drop of blood on your hands,” I say, “but this contract isn’t over. You saw the dossier. You heard the contract. There is one more man as evil as the last who needs to die. And I’m taking you with me.”
“I’m a hostage now, aren’t I?” she says in a quiet, soft voice touched by her tears.
I shake my head slowly. “That’s not my plan. I’m going to be attending a party. A ritzy one. It might look strange if I show up on my own, so I have an offer for you that will let you keep some of your freedom.”
She watches me carefully, and I can tell she’s listening to every word I say.
“Pose as my wife,” I say. “You did fine on the way out of the hotel, so I know you can handle this. Pretend we’re a married couple so that I can get into this party and blend in as well as all the others. We’ll need to put on a good show, but I will guide you.”
Her mouth falls open in surprise. She’s speechless for a few moments, then gives her head a light shake and stares at me as if trying to be sure I really said what I said.
“And if I refuse?” she asks.
I take a deep breath.
“Well,” I say, extending my hand to her. “You can choose to do things the easy way...or the hard way.”
Charity
A flash of bright white lightning streaks across the dark sky above us, and seconds later, the rain begins to fall.
My captor tightens his grip on my hand as he pulls me along behind him through the dense woods. Thunder crackles ominously overhead, matching up with the turbulent storm of emotions rolling through my mind. I am so exhausted, beyond the point of having any fight left in me. I feel as limp and useless as a rag doll as Mr. Murderer leads me confidently out of the forest, seeming to know exactly where he’s headed.
I wonder if he’s one of those weird people who can navigate by the positioning of the constellations and stuff. But without the moon visible in the sky, how can he possibly
know? Raindrops bounce off of my exposed arms and dampen my hair, rolling down my scalp and cheeks, dripping off the end of my nose.
I think back to catching a glimpse of myself in one of the hotel room’s mirrors.
I’d been dressed in my itchy, starchy maid uniform. Stray locks of chestnut-brown hair had shaken loose from my bun to hang frizzy and free on either side of my face.
My eyes had stared back at me, roughly the color of honey. My snotty little sister likes to call them “the color of dead grass,” and I almost snort at the memory of the last time I saw her. My full lips and a slightly upturned nose, symmetrical dimples, and a light smattering of freckles over my cheeks and the bridge of my nose. I looked plain. Invisible in a world of famous models and actresses, my skin untouched by makeup or color.
Would that be the last time I ever caught sight of my reflection? Will that be forever how I see myself? As a lowly, tired maid, exhausted from hours of scrubbing toilets and making beds?
Of course this night has to turn rainy and stormy. It’s not bad enough being tied up in the woods by a real-life murderer. No. It’s got to be bad weather, too.
Part of me wonders if he’s leading me to some well-hidden murder cabin where he’s going to string me up and kill me. I could end up on one of those true crime documentary series my parents never let me watch. I could have my own episode, explaining the gruesome details of my misfortune.
I’m definitely back to Charity Rivers, the charity case.
That would make a good name for a true crime podcast...
But sure enough, as we keep walking, the density of the trees lessens over time, getting clearer. Finally, we walk up to the motorcycle, leaning patiently against a big bush of brambles. My captor turns to me and says softly, “Let me help you get on.”
I hesitate, biting my lip as the rain pours down over the both of us.
“Where are you taking me now?” I ask, folding my arms over my chest. He’s let go of my hand, but I know better than to try and make a break for it. He’s at least a foot taller than me, with long legs and powerful muscles. He would overtake me in an instant, and I would risk making him angry. But what I can do is defy him in little ways. I can ask questions. I can make sure he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that I do not want to be here with him. I can’t fight, but I can be feisty.
“Somewhere safe. And dry,” he adds, gesturing broadly to the rain falling.
“Safe?” I repeat incredulously. “Like I’m ever going to be safe with you.”
He takes a step toward me, but not an aggressive one. He says gently but firmly, “Listen, Charity. You’re much safer with me than without me, believe it or not.”
“I’m going to go with not,” I retort, scowling at him. “You’re a murderer.”
“Yes,” he agrees readily. “I am. But I don’t kill indiscriminately.”
“Oh, sure. You’re a murderer with standards,” I snap, surprised at my own ferocity.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say a flicker of a smile crosses his face. Then he grabs the leather jacket and drapes it over my shoulders with a touch of gentility that actually stuns me a little bit. He reaches for me, and I flinch away, but he scoops me up effortlessly and sets me on the seat of the motorcycle. Again, it’s as if I weigh less than a feather. Wordlessly, he climbs on in front of me and starts up the engine.
“Hold on,” he instructs, and as hesitant as I am to put my arms around him again, I know it’s my only option. I slip my arms around his waist and the motorbike pulls a sharp turn, whipping around and rumbling away through the trees, kicking up a trail of mud behind us. The bike pulls out onto the road and we drive along at top speed, toward a destination unknown. To me, at least.
I shiver, goosebumps prickling up on my arms and legs from the rain and cool night wind. We’re on a secluded highway, and it’s miles and miles before I see any sign of human life. Gradually, through the veil of heavy rain, I begin to notice street signs and the occasional building. Finally, I read a sign indicating that we’re heading toward the Pittsburgh area. My heart twinges with fear as it hits me just how far from home I am.
My parents must be worried out of their minds. I usually come home by five or six in the evening, depending on which bus I catch. It’s been hours and hours since that time came and passed. Surely they have already filed a missing person’s report or started a search party or phoned the President or something by now. I can just picture my mother crying in the kitchen while my father shouts at the 9-1-1 operator on the phone, my six little siblings terrified and confused. I feel sick to my stomach imagining the stress they must be under right now.
It takes a little while for us to come across a quiet motel on the outskirts of a small town unbelievably called Climax. It’s supposed to be The Redbank Creek Motel, but the neon sign flashing out front is missing several letters. Mr. Murderer pulls the motorbike into the lonely parking lot, cuts the engine, and helps me off the bike. Gripping my hand in one and the briefcase in the other, he leads me under the awning and toward the front desk.
There’s an old woman dozing at the counter who wakes up with a snort when we walk in. She looks bewildered at first, then annoyed when she realizes she’s been woken up. She narrows her eyes and gives the two of us a disapproving onceover.
“You’re dripping all over the carpet,” she remarks.
“Yes. We are. It’s raining outside,” Mr. Murderer replies, with surprising patience.
“Can I help you?” the old lady sighs.
My captor slides a one-hundred dollar bill across the counter to her and says flatly, “We’ll take any room you have available. I don’t need the change.”
The old woman smiles faintly, her mood lifted by the big tip. She grabs a key off a hook on the wall and tosses it to him. He catches it and she says curtly, “Room 23. Second floor.”
“Thanks,” he replies, nodding to her. He pushes the door open and I follow out after him.
“Enjoy your honeymoon,” she calls out sarcastically after us as the door swings shut. Mr. Murderer chuckles to himself as he leads me up the stairs to our hotel room. He fits the key in the door and we stumble inside, the lights flickering on dimly with a faint buzzing sound. There’s a musty smell here, with the bed looking stiff and almost dusty. Like it hasn’t been touched in a while.
The hotel maid in me twitches, going over everything and mentally tallying the things that need cleaned and changed.
But then my eyes focus on the centerpiece of the room: there’s only one bed. I turn to look at my captor with horror, but he seems to read my mind. “You take the bed. I’ll take the floor,” he assures me. “But you might want to shower off first. Get yourself warmed up.”
I nod, then frown suspiciously. “You’re being nice to me. Why?” I ask.
He shrugs, peering into my soul with those bright green eyes. “I have no reason not to be nice to you, Charity. I won’t hurt you. You can trust that.”
I decide that for now, all I can do is accept his assurance. Without another word, I go into the tiny bathroom, lock the door, strip off my damp clothes, and climb into a warm, comforting shower. I can feel the dirt and grime and stress washing off of me, and I take my time. He still has my phone, so it’s not like I can make a secret call.
Soon, though, I get tired of standing there, and I switch off the faucet. I towel off and then put on the threadbare old robe hanging on the back of the door, trying not to guess how long it’s been since it was last washed.
That’s the problem with being a hotel maid. You become way too intimate with the cleanliness of a hotel room.
I come out of the bathroom and regard my captor warily. He’s piled some blankets on the floor like a sort of nest, and he’s sitting there, watching me.
Not in a threatening way. More like he’s curious about me.
I pad over and slip into the bed, never taking my eyes off of him. I know I’m not going to get a wink of sleep tonight. I don’t trust him not to… try something.
Maybe he’s taking pity on me, and wanting to let me die in my sleep, without seeing it coming.
Finally, I tell him, “You know my name, but I don’t know yours. That’s not fair.”
“My name is Jake,” he answers.
“Jake? Really?” I repeat.
He smiles faintly and nods. “Yes. What were you expecting? Dracula?”
“Well, I’ve been calling you Mr. Murderer in my head, so ‘Jake’ is a bit of a letdown, to tell you the truth,” I admit sheepishly. He almost laughs.
“Sorry to disappoint,” he remarks, then sits up and tosses me my cell phone. “You should give your parents a call.”
“What? Seriously?” I splutter.
“I’m going to monitor every word, but you should make sure they know you’re alive. And safe. You’re about college-age, right?” he asks.
“Yes. Why?”
“Tell them you’re staying over at a friend’s house for an impromptu study session.”
I wince. “They might not buy it.”
“Just try. It’s better than nothing,” he reasons.
So, with the last remaining minutes of my phone’s battery power, I make the call. Once my mother stops hysterically crying, she explains that my father isn’t home—he’s out driving up and down the streets searching for me. Another twinge of guilt twists my guts, but I have to lie. Jake is staring at me, watching closely. I tell her the bottled excuse he gave me, and of course, she has a thousand questions about it.
Before I can give a better explanation, the phone dies.
“At least that’s something to hopefully calm their nerves a little,” Jake says. “You should try to get some sleep now.”
“Mhm. Yeah. Sure,” I agree. But I spend the entire night only dozing in and out of sleep. Every time I start to drift off, I jerk awake to continue staring at my captor. And even though he’s lying down with his eyes closed, I know he’s not sleeping either.
The Assassin’s Heart Page 7
